


In the Storm

by fraternite



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Era, Grief/Mourning, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-27
Updated: 2014-06-27
Packaged: 2018-02-06 10:17:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1854376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fraternite/pseuds/fraternite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras watches a summer thunderstorm, alone--yet not alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Storm

**Author's Note:**

> This is for oilan, who will hate it.

It was the lightning that woke Enjolras, not the thunder. He had a tremendous skill for sleeping through loud noises; one evening (Courfeyrac loved to tell everyone the story), he had slept through an entire opera that Courfeyrac had dragged him to see, despite being seated in a box not ten yards from the stage. But lights were different. And once the first flash of the blue-white light against his eyes had awakened him, he could not get back to sleep.

He sighed and pushed himself up and stumbled sleepily into the little kitchen. As he waited for the kettle to boil, he looked out the window at the rain, driven across the rooftops in sheets, lit up starkly by every flash of lightning. His first thought was how much the thunder sounded like canon fire. His second was how terrible it must be for the women and children who were out in this storm because they had nowhere else to go. That should have been his first thought, he chided himself wearily. It would have been Combeferre's.

Enjolras poured the tea. He found the end of a stale baguette in one of the cupboards, brought it and the candle over to the table. It was only when he turned back to the stove to collect his tea that he realized.

He'd poured two cups of tea.

He poured the unneeded tea back into the kettle and brought his own tea over to the table, blotting at his eyes with the sleeve of his nightshirt. It was strange, that it was so easy to forget Combeferre was gone, when he was _never_ free of the dull ache of the knowledge. Not even six months later, when by rights he should have stopped accidentally buying two loaves at the baker's. He still found himself turning to meet Combeferre's eyes in meetings when ridiculous claims were made, marking passages in books to show him, reaching for his arm when the crowd at a protest got unruly.

But how could he get used to not having Combeferre there when Combeferre was so much a part of him, when he knew him so well that at any moment he knew exactly what he would say, how he would act?

He pictured Combeferre now, sitting across from him, quietly sipping his tea. His hair messy from sleep, he would turn to look out the window at the storm, and his forehead would crease.

"It's bad out there," he would say quietly. "I hope the right bank doesn't flood again."

"It's been hot for weeks," Enjolras would answer. "The land is dry and will soak the water up."

Combeferre would nod, the steam from the tea fogging up his glasses as he raised the cup to his lips. "You're right, it probably will be fine. In weather like this, though, I can't help but think of all the people who can't be indoors. It should be a fundamental human right, to have a roof over one's head in a storm like this."

"That's a bold statement," Enjolras smiled softly. "Should we make the argument in the next pamphlet?"

"Adding it to the section where we say bread has become a luxury where it should be a right?"

"Exactly; it would fit in with argument, if we can find the right words. Do you think it would be more effective in winter, though, when no one wants to be out of doors? We could save it until then."

And the conversation went on, Enjolras imagining what they would say, how Combeferre would rub his eyes with one hand underneath his glasses, the quiet clink of spoons against china. All of it was so intimately familiar to him, it came into his mind as naturally as breathing, and as much as it sharpened the ache in his heart, it also soothed it, the way stretching a strained muscle both hurts and heals.

The imagined conversation turned to books, Combeferre asking what Enjolras thought of the new American work he was reading, and Enjolras telling Combeferre all the ideas he'd saved up to share with him. And then came the part where Enjolras asked Combeferre what _he_ was reading. And that was where it all fell apart.

Combeferre was always reading something different, from astronomy treatises in translation from the Arabic to the ancient Greek philosophers to the most modern English texts about the rights of industrial workers. His thoughts on these books were always insightful and varied and creative--and so Enjolras's memory could not supply them, because every time it was something new and unexpected. It was one of the things he loved about Combeferre, the way he always had a new thought to share, while Enjolras's mind gnawed away at the same ideas week after week.

But it meant that his memory of the man, trapped in the past as it was, would never come close to what Combeferre really was. And of course, no shadow could substitute for the real thing, Enjolras knew that; he knew he was foolish to try to treat his loss with imagining his friend. Living on images just made the pain worse when they inevitably fell short.

But he just missed him _so much_.

And even now, with the illusion of his presence broken down, he was still aware of what Combeferre would be doing right now, were he here. In Enjolras's mind's eye, Combeferre frowned at his friend's distress and reached out to lay a gentle hand on his arm (Enjolras could _feel_ his hand through the fabric of his nightshirt, the warmth of it, the weight of each finger).

"Please, my friend, don't do this," Combeferre said gently. "You're making things harder for yourself. Go to Courfeyrac; let him help you. Let what is gone go, and live in the present world again."

"I can't." Enjolras's whisper echoed in the darkened room.

Combeferre smiled gently. "You can." He squeezed his hand. "I have faith in you."

Enjolras laid his forehead on his arms and gave himself over to sobs.


End file.
